


between the shadow and the blinding flame

by slaapkat



Series: dulce et decorum [2]
Category: Green Lantern (Comics), Green Lantern - All Media Types
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Gen, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-World War I, Slow Burn, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:14:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24201898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slaapkat/pseuds/slaapkat
Summary: The War had a tendency to change your perspective on things. A dizzying sort of feeling, as though he’d returned home stepping through the looking glass. Whatever life he’d lived before was long gone. Barely two years away, and the world had steadily moved on without him. America was on the cusp of a new decade and ready to embrace it, uncaring of those who struggled to keep up.Flying ace meant little to nothing, now, if it ever truly meant anything before.
Relationships: Hal Jordan/Thaal Sinestro
Series: dulce et decorum [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1587337
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic LONG overdue and I just want to thank my BESTEST friend @ufonaut for being endlessly patient with me all this time!
> 
> Long story short, this a quasi-modern no-powers AU set during the 1920s. Sinestro is a famous silent film actor, Hal is a former fighter pilot who in the spirit of the Lost Generation is searching for purpose in the face of a new post-war world. I tried my best to keep it true to character, and this AU is near and dear to both our hearts. I hope it was worth the wait, and that you all enjoy!

_And still, between the shadow and the blinding flame,_

_The brave despair of men flings onward, ever the same_

_As in those doom-lit years that wait them, and have been..._

_And life is just the picture dancing on a screen._

_Picture-Show_ , Siegfried Sassoon

* * *

_Shell shock_ , they called it. The doctors had tutted and hummed from behind their clipboards, shaking their heads sadly as they poked and prodded.

His superior officers, however, preferred to call it a _moral failing_. A lack of character. _Real men_ were unfazed by their plane being shot out of the sky. _Real men_ endured war. _Real men_ did not succumb to weakness, did not fail, did not cower.

Not that it mattered now, anyways. The Great War was over. Whatever _real men_ did meant nothing if most of them were dead.

Hal Jordan did what he could to make the most of it.

The War had a tendency to change your perspective on things. A dizzying sort of feeling, as though he’d returned home stepping through the looking glass. Whatever life he’d lived before was long gone. Barely two years away, and the world had steadily moved on without him. America was on the cusp of a new decade and ready to embrace it, uncaring of those who struggled to keep up.

 _Flying ace_ meant little to nothing, now, if it ever truly meant anything before. He could fly though artillery fire without flinching, swerve through a hailstorm of bullets without a scratch, have _eleven_ planes shot down and given two medals for his efforts, but it hardly mattered when he suddenly found himself a civilian all over again, where crowds made his skin crawl and he choked at the sounds of backfiring cars.

Carol Ferris was at least kind enough to take him in after he’d returned, albeit momentarily. The attempt at picking their relationship back up was short-lived. Too much had changed between them, whatever foundation it had been built on having long since crumbled away. _Hal_ had changed, some unnamable part of him altered, left bitter and despondent despite his real and honest attempts to pick up where they left off.

Carol seemed to understand, at least. She’d changed, too.

She’d joined up with a group of militant suffragettes who called themselves the _Star Sapphires_ while he’d been away. On its own, it was fine enough-- votes for women? Sure. Hal had witnessed enough action and heroics from plenty of nurses on the front to say it was probably about time they had _some_ say in what was going on. Beyond that he’d agree to just about anything if it meant one more night in the guest room.

Hal would tolerate the protests, the meetings, the speeches-- and Carol, in turn, would tolerate everything else. The night terrors, the mood swings, the bouts of absent mindedness, the constant promises that he was going to keep _this_ job for sure.

The drinking.

Not that Hal had a _problem_ , exactly, just...

It made things easier.

As it happened, the Star Sapphires also dabbled in the temperance movement on the side. Some crock about preserving and protecting the nation’s love for one another. Carol was willing enough to let it slide, her lingering concern for Hal just enough to beat out her loyalty to her new friends.

Then prohibition happened, and whatever tolerance for him Carol had left ran out pretty quick.

\---

Lacking very many other options, Hal ultimately reverts back to the one thing he _does_ know.

 _Flying_.

He scrounges up some money between a few odd jobs and his meager pension and buys a surplus Jenny off the government. Not much, but a plane’s a plane.

Being a former flying ace amounted to little, in the grand scheme of things, but it at least gave him the technical know-how to _really_ fly. He cared for little else.

As disillusioned as Hal was in the face of this new world, rudderless and desperately hoping for _some_ amount of purpose, he could at least still find solace in this.

\---

A living is made, if somewhat unsteadily. Planes remained enough of a recent novelty that there were no shortage of gawkers. Already carrying a startling lack of self-preservation, Hal soon enough falls easily into the rapidly growing crowd of stunt fliers.

And, for a time, Hal was-- _content_. He could fly, and _forget_. He could lose himself in the press of gravity and the throaty roar of his plane’s engine as he played at dive-bombing crowds and twisted into tight loops and barrel rolls.

But it wasn’t _enough_.

It was enough to earn him a shabby little apartment on the edge of Coast City, sure, a place to crash in between shows when business was slow, but Hal still felt-- _lost_.

There was a certain numbness to it all. Flying was the only thing that still gave him purpose, and yet…

Flying was what he was good at. Flying was all he had _left_.

It still only ever felt like he was going through the motions.

Attempts to join any actual flying circus groups were met with quick failure. Any acceptances he did manage to land never lasted for long. Too risky, too dangerous, too quick to break formation, too slow to pull out of nose dive, too eager to chase that inevitable adrenaline high of cheating death once again.

It wasn’t enough and Hal was beginning to wonder whether it was even worth it to keep trying at all.

\---

An opportunity, strangely enough, comes in the form of an almost ignored _help wanted_ ad from an old newspaper he’d nearly seen fit to throw away.

_WANTED-- PICTURE DIRECTOR IN NEED OF EXPERT PILOT TO PERFORM STUNTS ON FILM. MUST BE EXPERIENCED, UNAFRAID. INQUIRE WITHIN COAST CITY STUDIO LOT._

Hal gnaws on the inside of his cheek as he reads it, considering. Lord knew he needed the money-- behind on rent _again_ , the profitability of stunt flying drying up as more and more entered the scene --but to be part of a _picture_?

He didn’t have the chops for _acting_ , he was sure, but the ad…

_Experienced. Unafraid._

It was worth a shot.

\---

The Coast City studio lots were a bustling sort of city within a city, clearly eager to try and make a stake alongside all the equally up and coming studios pouring out of Hollywood.

Hal feels distinctly out of place, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his weathered and worn leather flight jacket. There’s people all around, all walking with such distinct purpose and conviction he thinks it’s a wonder not one of them stopped to ask if he was lost.

Which, he _was_ , but that's besides the point.

An hour or so of only partially aimless wandering eventually lands Hal at the door of an out of the way office building that certainly _looks_ plenty official. He knocks lightly, and steps inside.

He’s not sure what he expects, exactly, but it’s almost underwhelming as to what he _does_ see: an unassuming man with long, white hair pulled back seated behind a large desk, stacks and stacks of papers all around him as he scribbles furiously with a pen. He doesn’t look up as Hal enters, nor when he clears his throat.

“Yes?” is the only, somewhat terse, acknowledgement he gets.

“Uh,” Hal says then, rather inelegantly. “I’m… here to answer your ad? Or, _an_ ad, at least. The one about the pilot.”

It’s then the man finally looks up, expression unreadable but with eyes uncomfortably sharp, regarding Hal impassively but clearly measuring him up.

“‘The one about the pilot’,” he echoes flatly. “A’ight, fair. And who are you?”

“Hal Jordan,” Hal answers quickly. “I’m experienced. As expert as it gets.”

“Ganthet,” the man introduces himself, then makes a faintly unimpressed noise, eyes narrowing. “I’ve had plenty of guys _say_ they were experienced, though. You’re almost a dime a dozen these days. What sets you apart?”

“Flew in the War. I’m an ace. Been flying stunt shows for the past two years. Have my own Jenny and everything.”

“A barnstormer, eh?” Ganthet inquires. Hal nods. Ganthet purses his lips, examining him critically. “Hear some of them can make a good living. Seen a few flying circuses myself, _real_ show stoppers. Real famous, some of them. Begs the question why you’d give up all _that_ just to be some nobody doing tricks in a picture.”

Hal grimaces and hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck in clear reluctance to answer. He shrugs. “I _was_ a part of-- a _few_ circuses. They never wanted to keep me for very long. The stunts I liked to pull were too risky, even for them. Flying like you have a death wish is bad for business, apparently.”

 _Idiot_. He should have never said anything. Now Ganthet was looking at him even _more_ intently with that weird unreadable gaze of his, critically sharp eyes narrowed as he looked Hal up and down, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

Suddenly, Ganthet snaps his fingers and leaps up out of his chair, and-- _wow_ , Hal has to stop himself from goggling as Ganthet rounds his desk and he’s struck with the fact that it had somehow escaped his notice that this guy was _little_ , barely up to his hip if he had to hazard a guess. This was the _director--_?

“You’re _perfect_!”

“I’m-- I am?” comes Hal’s somewhat delayed response, the shock of it causing him to forget his startlement over the director’s diminutive stature.

“Yes! No fear! _Exactly_ what I’ve been looking for,” Ganthet exclaims, continuing. He holds his hands up in front of his face as though he’s framing Hal in his eye. “My next film, see, requires that _exact_ brand of fearlessness. _Real_ death defying stunts, as real as possible. I think you’re _it_.”

Hal can’t help but gape. It _can’t_ have been that easy. He’d never heard of anyone actually _liking_ being told he was, for all intents and purposes, _bad_ at his job.

“...Really?” Hal says, brows furrowing. He just-- needs to be _sure_.

“ _Really_ ,” Ganthet repeats. He smirks, and holds out a hand. Hal tentatively accepts it. “Welcome to _Oa Pictures_ , kid. How soon can you start?”

\---

 _How soon_ is apparently _right now_ , an answer blurted out without thinking. It at least makes this Ganthet guy laugh. He gets told to come first thing tomorrow, and bring his plane. A little show of talent before he’s officially in.

The lot is no less daunting the next day. He flies, landing the Jenny in a nearby field and making his way back in the general direction he remembered the office building being.

It’s no more easy to find the second time around, and no less intimidating, but Hal _does_ eventually find the office again, with one minor difference. His hand pauses over the doorknob, frowning as the muffled but unmistakable sounds of a heated argument leaking through the door. Common sense dictated that he wait it out.

But since when had Hal ever followed common sense? A solid history of excessive risk-taking behavior soundly answered _never_.

Slowly, and as quietly as he can manage, Hal opens the door and slips inside.

The very first thing to grace his eyes is a tall mass of ugly brown fur standing in front of Ganthet’s desk, visibly incensed and gritting out words in the midst of a _very_ angry rant.

“--will not have him _replaced_ by some random _nobody_ off the street--”

“Now, Sinestro, let’s not be hasty--”

“Hasty!” he suddenly exclaims outrageously, jabbing a finger into the desk. “ _Hasty_ is believing just because he _said_ he was in the War it means he’s worthy of--”

The door suddenly shuts behind Hal unexpectedly loudly, stopping the argument in its tracks as the man in the ridiculous fur coat whips around at the intrusion, eyes leveling on Hal with a disdainful glare. Hal begins to wonder if maybe he should have waited outside after all.

The man-- Sinestro, apparently --is _tall_ , with a particular handsome leanness to him that’s currently swallowed by that atrocious raccoon coat, jet-black hair slicked back from a devastatingly sharp widow’s peak, a single forelock of white streaked through the middle. His features were severe, almost feline in appearance, with a somewhat darker, Mediterrainian complexion, sharp amber eyes that seemed to bore into Hal and a thin pencil mustache that only served to accentuate his sneer. _Very_ obviously and _distinctly_ unimpressed with him, and taking no shame in being a right bastard about it.

“You must be _Jordan_ ,” Sinestro says, snide. His voice was slightly accented, vaguely German-sounding. Interesting.

“Yeah, _Hal_ Jordan,” Hal replies slowly, gnawing at the inside of his cheek and fighting the urge to square up. He lifts his chin in a show of cocky defiance instead, that brash ego typical to most pilots rearing its head against the initial instinct of bowing out. “That’s my name. Don’t wear it out. Who the hell are you?”

Ganthet sighs over Sinestro’s scandalized scoff, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Hal Jordan, Thaal Sinestro. Our star actor. Thaal Sinestro, Hal Jordan. Your new co-star.”

“ _Just_ Sinestro,” he says sharply, sniffing. “And he’s a _stunt_ actor. Hardly worthy of being called my _co-_ star, double so if he doesn’t even know who I _am--_ “

“Am I supposed to?” Hal says somewhat sardonically, raising an eyebrow. Sinestro _looked_ familiar, sure, but Hal hadn’t exactly made much of a habit of seeing pictures in recent years. He smirks as it has the intended effect of causing Sinestro to sputter indignantly before scowling and drawing his enormous dead animal of a coat tighter around him and storming towards the door. Hal dutifully steps aside and as it shuts behind Sinestro he lets out a low whistle.

“I… apologize,” Ganthet says, smiling tightly. “He’s just… a little upset, so to speak.”

“I’ll say,” Hal huffs, still looking after the door. “He sure thinks he’s all hotsy-totsy. What’s with him?”

Ganthet grimaces slightly and indicates for Hal to sit in the chair in front of his desk. “We had a pilot before you, a man whom Sinestro was… very close with. An excellent actor in his own right. Any film they headlined together was a _guaranteed_ success. Then, well, the war…”

 _Ah_. Hal could guess well enough what happened.

“In any case,” Ganthet continues casually, shuffling some papers. “I’ve had something of a hard time finding and keeping people who know how to fly since then. Most either head for greener pastures after not getting the fame they wanted or… get run off, by Sinestro.”

It’s hard not to laugh at that, as easily believable as it is. Sinestro sure seemed like the type to not want to share the spotlight, regardless of whatever relationship he had with his old co-star. A part of him had the urge to stick around just to annoy Sinestro even further. In fact, why _doesn’t_ he? Could be worth the entertainment.

“I’m not really in it for the fame,” Hal says with a shrug from where he’s slouched in the chair. “Just the flying. Stunt shows are great and all, but… fickle. Not always reliable. I’ll take whatever baloney Sinestro dishes out so long as I get paid.”

Ganthet actually smirks at that, amused and faintly impressed. Hal can tell he’s interested in something about him, but he couldn’t begin to guess what.

“Say, why don’t you go get your plane warmed up?” Ganthet says, standing

\---

Sinestro reappears, sans ugly fur coat but now sporting an equally atrocious ascot, as Hal is running through what passes as his meager pre-flight checklist and Ganthet is setting up his camera for test shots. He looks no less pleased with the situation but at least he doesn’t seem to be as eager about taking potshots as he had been earlier.

Hal spares a glance before he can help it, curiosity getting the best of him; bereft of the bulkiness of the coat, Sinestro’s lean tallness is even more apparent, accentuated by a pinstripe suit and a remarkably tiny waist. Hal’s eyebrows actually arc up at that, but he forces himself to look away before he’s caught staring.

“You aren’t serious about this, are you?” say Sinestro drolly, apparently to Ganthet. Hal focuses on readying his plane.

“Just bear with me, for the moment,” Ganthet says back, more focused on readying his camera than indulging Sinestro’s simmering tantrum. “I need a pilot, and I need a pilot who can fly stunts. If I hire him--”

“ _If_ ,” Sinestro huffs disparagingly.

“ _If_ I hire him, he will remain a stunt pilot. You can stop worrying about losing your top billing.”

“Good,” Sinestro says with a little self-satisfied _hmpf_ at the end. “ _Rin Tin Tin_ has more acting talent in his left paw than this _dewdropper_ , anyhow.”

Hal looks down at himself with a minor frown. He wasn’t dressed _that_ badly, other than his jacket maybe being a bit scuffed. Just who the hell did this guy think he was? When Hal looks back up Sinestro is smirking, smug. Hal feels the heat rising to his face, and wants nothing more in that moment than to wipe that smarmy grin off his face.

“So, what is it?” Sinestro continues, sickly-sweet as he addresses Hal now. “You’re here because you think you can make it big in Hollywood?”

“No,” Hal says, smiling right back as he climbs into the pilot’s seat. “I’m here because you can’t fly a plane.”

Whatever Sinestro says in retort is lost as Hal pulls his goggles over his eyes and starts flipping the ignition switches, the plane’s engine grinding to life and the propeller kicking into gear with a loud, droning buzz that’s quick to smother all other noise around them. Hal smiles, smug in his own right, and gives Sinestro a condescending little salute as he urges the plane forward to begin its ascent into the sky.

\---

It’s in the air that Hal finally feels _free_ , even if that initial spark of excitement is slow to come on and quick to snuff out. Spite is what keeps him going, now, eager to prove he wasn’t just _any_ old run of the mill _fly boy_.

Sinestro’s words needle him even now. Hal doesn’t even _want_ to be an actor, could care _less_ about whether or not pictures make it through the end of the decade, but the urge to be that _cocky sonuvabitch_ everyone tends to write him off as is simply too strong to resist. He spends his time pulling the craziest moves he can muster, tight hairpin turns and dizzying corkscrew spirals, grandiose loops and stomach churning barrel rolls; Hal almost feels _excited_ about it all, again.

And if he’s showing off a little-- so what? The thought of Sinestro’s jaw hitting the floor brings him a smug sense of satisfaction as he jerks the the throttle forward and sends the plane into a steep, screaming dive. Tempting fate, he knew-- but it was the only way he could and _would_ fly, and he wasn’t going to let anyone tell him any different. He shuts off the engine, the propeller stuttering to a halt, the just as equally deafening roar of the wind replacing it as he sends the plane into freefall.

Risky. _Too_ risky, if he was being honest, but Hal knew what he was doing.

Or hoped he did, anyways.

The ground was coming up fast. Hal stares it down like a challenge. The wind screams in his ears, and underneath it he can almost hear the low whistle of artillery fire. Hal closes his eyes.

The throttle is jerked again, back towards him, switches flipping until the engine sputters back to life and the propellers spins into action, the plane pulling up and out of the dive at the last possible second. Hal thinks he may hear a _whoop_ of excitement under all the cacophony. That must mean _something_ good.

When he eventually lands, the Jenny coming to a slow, rolling stop near where he’d taken off, Ganthet and Sinestro are still there. Ganthet is visibly impressed by his show of talent. Sinestro looks like he’s sucked a lemon.

“Kid, that was _incredible_ ,” comes Ganthet’s eager praise as Hal hops out of the plane, at the same time Sinestro hisses a mortified, “Jordan, are you _insane_?”

A near-arrogant, self-assured smirk is his only response to both, an almost equally patronizing wink sent Sinestro’s way as Ganthet enthuses about whatever footage he’s capture. That sucked-lemon look intensifies before he turns and stalks off in a huff.

This was going to be _fun_.

\---

He gets the job, which Hal can’t help but find at least _mildly_ startling. He signs his name on a few papers, and suddenly-- he’s an _actor_.

More or less.

Ganthet apparently had a thing for action and suspense, movies about noble heroes or nail-biting thrill rides. The more realistic the footage, the more seats he can fill in the movie palaces. Said realistic footage, however, necessitated someone to actually _perform_ it.

Which Hal was happy to do, of course. _Double_ so if it meant rubbing the fact in Sinestro’s face every chance he got, which he _did_.

It’s easy to fall back into that swaggering, overly confident manner of holding himself. The way that pilots _had_ to be, during the war especially, to cover up the knowledge that going up in a plane didn’t always mean making it back to the ground, and the only choice you have if something went _wrong_ was how quickly you wanted to _die_.

Hal shows up on set when called for, covers that ever-lingering sensation of loss and rudderlessness with brash confidence and a conviction that he was nigh immortal, for all intents and purposes acting as though he were _cock of the walk_. He laughs and cracks jokes to distract from that nagging sense of purposelessness, and hopes it’s enough to distract everyone else from noticing too.

While not the intention, it also serves to consistently drive Sinestro up the _wall_. Hal delights in it more than he can care to admit. He doesn’t know _why_ he enjoys getting under Sinestro’s skin so much, he just _does_. It’s so easy he can’t help it.

Maybe it was the way Sinestro had zeroed in on him so quickly. Hal didn’t know _what_ his problem was, but he had no problem himself giving Sinestro a _reason_ to be annoyed. Might as well make all that initial anger worthwhile.

The one saving grace of it all is that the role of _Unnamed Pilot #1_ doesn’t usually necessitate _too_ much shared set time. Hal’s plenty content to steal Sinestro’s thunder from the sidelines by doing not much more than existing. He shows up, he gets his paycheck, he goes home.

It’s not _so_ bad, all things considered.

\---

Hal finally gets a comfortable groove going when Ganthet suddenly switches things up and hands him a real actual _script_.

“We’re short, today,” Ganthet explains blithely, waving off Hal’s concerns and walking off towards set. “Kilowog couldn’t make it, and we’re behind enough on production as it is.”

“But I’m not-- I’m not an _actor_ ,” Hal tries in defense as he trails after Ganthet, trying to keep the desperation from being too plainly evident in his voice. “C’mon, you gotta know this is crackers. I’m no good for this.”

“No, but you’re a _stunt_ actor, aren’t you?”

Hal gapes, brows furrowing. “I mean, _yes_ , but--”

“But _nothing_ ,” Ganthet says pointedly, turning to face Hal. “The beauty of silent film is that you only have to _look_ the part. The difference between then and now is that you’ll just be closer to the camera. Speaking of…” He looks Hal up and down, lips quirked. “Go run by costuming, they’ll set you up with something nice. Be back on set within the hour. I’ll have Sinestro show you the ropes.”

Ganthet hustles off before Hal can get another word in, leaving him standing there open-mouthed and meekly clutching the screenplay. Well, then.

\---

Part of Hal almost figures he ought to be offended at the implication that his current pilot’s uniform _wasn’t_ nice, but when he stares himself in the mirror of the dressing room after the costumer finishes his work, Hal can... _nearly_ see Ganthet’s point.

His flight jacket, well-worn as it was, had clearly been mended and re-mended several times over the course of the war and in the years since, bullet holes and rips and tears and scrapes roughening it up to what _Hal_ considered handsomely rugged, but obviously wouldn’t have held up to standard in a movie that he was actually going to be _seen_ in.

What _was_ standard, apparently, was considerably fancier, as useless as it would have been in an actual aerial fight. The new slim-fitted flight jacket accentuated his figure perfectly, broadening his shoulders and tapering down to his waist to meet similarly fitted trousers, the wool along the collar obviously chosen more for its softness than warmth. Slim leather gloves fitted over his hands and snug boots hugged his calves. A stylish new scarf completes it, alongside a helmet and goggles which Hal had yet to put on. Far more of an idealized image of fighter pilots than anything resembling reality, but Hal has to admit-- he looks _good_. Whatever Ganthet had in store for that next picture of his was _definitely_ worth it.

Hal’s so busy admiring himself that he doesn’t notice when the dressing room door opens behind him, startling when he twists to admire his backside in the mirror and catches Sinestro-- dressed in what seemed like some kind of modern faux- _Zorro_ getup --staring at him in his reflection.

Whatever expression Sinestro had before he was caught is quickly covered by a mask of annoyed indifference, lip curling slightly. Hal has to fight a pout; what did he have to do to ever get on this guy’s _good_ side?

“...How long have you been standing there?”

“Long _enough_ ,” Sinestro huffs with what Hal is sure is exaggerated annoyance. “You’re _late_. You were supposed to be on set, with _me_ , five minutes ago.”

He turns away with a scoff before Hal could even begin his defence. Whatever, fine. He quickly follows after Sinestro, helmet and goggles in hand.

“Look, uh, sorry we got off on the wrong foot,” Hal attempts, even if he doesn’t _quite_ well mean it. Working together obviously didn’t mean they had to be friends, but he could at least clear the air. “Ganthet said you’d show me the ropes? You’re a big shot actor, right? My girl saw you in _Inner Vice_ , once, I think. I’m not one for dramas, myself, really, or _any_ kind of picture, but she sure thought it was red hot--”

“I hope you realize, _actually_ acting in a _film_ doesn’t require nearly as much _talking_ ,” Sinestro interrupts with a somewhat condescending scoff, and Hal really _does_ pout this time. There’s a small pause before Sinestro continues, side-eyeing Hal as they walk. “Your ‘girl’?”

“I mean-- not _anymore_ , really,” Hal finds himself explaining awkwardly, and isn’t sure why he’s suddenly so quick to defend himself. “She _was_ , but-- look, it doesn’t matter. Just thought, y’know, if you’re supposed to be teaching me about this acting stuff, I should admit I do _kinda_ actually know who you are. Mind telling me what we’re even filming?”

Sinestro stares him down through narrowed eyes for a few moments before finally turning away with a haughty sniff. “We’re filming a new chapter of my _star_ serial film, _The Crimson Cavalier_ \-- which you would _know_ if you’d even _glanced_ at the script.”

“It’s a _silent_ film,” Hal retorts dryly. “How much is there to really read? Do we even have lines?”

Sinestro then groans in an exasperated manner Hal previously only thought typical of those overly-fancy Shakespearian types, whipping around in front of hip to shake his script in his face. “The stage direction, Jordan! The _motivation_! The reasons our chosen characters do and act as they do! We do not have the luxury of _theatre_ , Jordan, we must know how to emote entirely with our actions and why! _Everyone_ thinks they can make a film these days and so we must stand out amongst the crowd as the best!”

“...Right,” replies Hal, raising a dubious eyebrow. He pauses to thumb through his copy. It’s not much, as he’d suspected, but it does serve to give a basic overview of what’s to be expected, as Sinestro had explained in not as _quite_ as few words. A character known simply as _the Pilot_ is circled; given the way they had dressed him, it’s not hard to guess who he’s meant to be. Not _much_ of an upgrade, but enough that it feels like an actual title. It doesn’t do much to explain Sinestro’s whole look, though. “Okay, sure,” Hal says, still somewhat doubtful. “And who is the Crimson Cavalier, exactly?”

“Why!” Sinestro scoffs and gestures to himself with flourish. “I am the noble protector of the weak and innocent! I defend the idyllic French countryside and the kind people of Alsace-Lorraine during the Great War from harsh and hostile German forces atop my trusted steed-- with _occasional_ help from a friendly squadron of fighter pilots.”

It’s a proclamation that sounds painfully rehearsed to the extent that Sinestro’s accent almost fades enough for Hal to forget about it.

“Hold on, aren’t _you_ German?” Hal asks bluntly before just as quickly regretting it, face going red as he stumbles over himself to apologize. “Shit, not-- not that I’m holding that against you, I really could care less now that the war’s over--”

“ _Austrian_ , if we care to be technical,” interrupts Sinestro, voice tight, his smile pained. “And I also _couldn’t_ really care less, if I may be honest. I left as the war was just beginning and have no plans to return. All the same, my fans _couldn’t_ care less as well. People all across the nation flock to see my latest serials. Movie palaces practically _fight_ for the right to show _my_ feature films. I am _adored_.”

Hal’s mouth twists wryly in minor disbelief, but he ultimately accepts Sinestro’s word and shrugs, turning to his script and preparing to walk back to set, only to be stopped by Sinestro grabbing his aviator helmet and goggles and dangling them in front of his face.

“You’ll need to put _these_ on,” Sinestro orders curtly.

“It says here I won’t _actually_ be flying, though,” Hal complains, snatching them back. “It’ll be just some fancy trick to make it _look_ like it. I barely bother with my actual helmet as it is. What’s the point?”

“The _point_ is, Jordan,” Sinestro states matter-of-factly, turning and walking away. “This is _my_ film, and I can’t have someone with _your_ looks distracting from it. Just put them on already and meet me on set.”

“ _My_ looks--?” Hal sputters before abruptly stopping, face screwed up in confusion. Sinestro just told him he was either very _good-looking_ or very _ugly_. With no reason for the former, Hal can only assume the latter. He shoves the helmet and goggles on with an indignant frown and trudges after.

\---

Despite Hal’s concerns, shooting turns out to be a relatively uneventful affair. Sinestro hams it up for the camera, excessive and theatrical to a ridiculous degree even by _stage_ standards. For all that Sinestro had a classical air about him, Hal doesn’t doubt he wouldn’t look _too_ out of place in some of the cheap vaudeville shows he’d seen once or twice down by the bay; the thought brings him a little private smile of amusement. He finds it hard to look away all the same, and tells himself it’s just because it’s like watching a trainwreck.

Hal, for his part, slips back into that lackadaisical manner of his, again, lounging in his seat of the fake plane they’d made up for close-up shots and lazily perusing whatever apparently counted for the script; it wasn’t much more than a cheap wood frame with canvas strung over it, which was really only a _minor_ step down from the actual thing, practically the only part missing was a working engine.

 _The Pilot_ was described as _noble_ and _brave_. Easy enough, and _simple_ , if a little boring. Hal could work with that.

When his parts come, Hal flashes his best grin for the camera, cocky and confident, aiming for _brash_ rather than simply brave, every single brazen pilot he ever knew, including _himself_ , condensed down into a single character. Sinestro says they have to find their character’s motivations and so Hal _does--_ the Pilot is a man painfully aware that people like _him_ have an average lifetime of a little over two weeks before they end up on the ground in a smouldering wreckage for one reason or another, and he can’t afford _any_ fear because of it. He tosses out all notions of stoic nobleness; all the noble ones died thinking playing _fair_ in war still mattered, and that it was going to be over in no time.

Whatever he ends up doing, it _works_. Hal does what he can with what he has-- half his face obscured by the helmet and goggles Sinestro had insisted on, half his body hidden by the carriage of the plane --and it’s apparently more than enough for Ganthet, who’s already enthusing about the shots before he has the chance to yell _cut_ , as well as Sinestro, looking oddly flustered as he stands off to the side with his arms crossed, seemingly doing his best to appear displeased.

“Didn’t steal your thunder, did I?” Hal teases when production finally wraps up, pulling off the helmet and brushing a hand through his hair, smirking as he approaches Sinestro.

“ _Hardly_ ,” Sinestro scoffs haughtily, rolling his eyes and turning up his nose. “Don’t let it get to your head. Just remember _I’m_ the star, here. You’re not cut out for this. Consider yourself lucky that you even get a _billing_.”

 _You’re big-headed enough for the both of us_ is what Hal wants to say, but only frowns instead as Sinestro turns and swiftly walks away. He’d almost looked _flushed_ , if Hal didn’t know any better. He couldn’t really have been _that_ mad about that, could he? Whatever. That wasn’t Hal’s problem, anyways.

He changes and goes home to wait for his next paycheck. It wasn’t as though he’d _wanted_ to be an actor, Sinestro just needed to stop making such a fuss.

\---

“Sinestro, stop making such a fuss.”

“I will not! This is an _outrage_!”

Hal groans. Sinestro paces fervently back and forth in Ganthet’s office, angrily shaking a newspaper. Ganthet sits at his desk watching it all unfold with dry amusement. Hal sags further into his chair, roughly dragging a hand down his face as he waits for Sinestro to-- tire himself out, or something. Just so long as he stops throwing this ridiculous fit.

“Listen to this!” Sinestro says incredulously. “‘While Thaal Sinestro’s latest addition to the _Crimson Cavalier_ series has continued to keep us on the edge of our seats, the breakout performance by newcomer Hal Jordan was what really caught our attention.’” He scoffs in disbelief. “‘Ruggedly handsome and alluringly charming, Jordan steals the spotlight and our hearts with his movie-star looks as the yet-named _Pilot_. Is this a new addition to the cast of characters at director Ganthet’s beck and call, or are we resigned to simply getting our hopes up for nothing?’”

He tosses the now-crumpled paper at Ganthet’s desk in disgust, who proceeds to pick it up and read for himself.

“Can you believe this? I can’t believe this!” Sinestro continues to rant, throwing his hands in the air. Hal continues to fail to see what the big deal is. “Jordan, stealing the spotlight!”

“The people like him,” Ganthet says neutrally, not looking up from the paper.

“The people will like _anything_ , apparently. He’s not even supposed to be a recurring character! _Kilowog_ was supposed to have that part! They wouldn’t have said anything like _that_ about Kilowog!”

“Kilowog’s a nice guy,” Hal says flatly. Big Russian fella. Made Hal latkes, once. Bit of a hardass at times but overall pleasant. “Listen, it’s fun and all watching Sinestro go nuts over whatever the papers are saying, but why _I_ had to listen to it has got me all balled up. Why’d you call _me_ in again, exactly?”

“I called you _both_ in because I have a proposition to make,” Ganthet announces, laying the paper down and clasping his hands together. It’s enough to finally get Sinestro to stop pacing, but not so much as to wipe that sour look off his face just yet. “See, the papers can’t get enough of you, Hal-- your stunt work was already impressive, but I think you’ve _got_ something, son. What say we get you an _official_ contract written up, and I put you and Sinestro together in the next picture?”

Hal’s incredulous _what_ is echoed by Sinestro’s equally indignant exclamation.

“See, I got this idea--” Ganthet continues, ignoring Sinestro’s sputtering. “War movies, they’re getting to be all the rage-- tales of heroism and valor! We’re halfway there with Sinestro’s pictures already, but no one’s done much of anything regarding the _actual_ people who’ve fought it. This, see, _this_ is going to be my answer--”

Ganthet leaps up, standing in his chair, waving his hands with flourish, “The Germans may have their _Red Baron_ , but we have-- _the Green Lantern!_ ”

“You _can’t_ be serious,” Sinestro bemoans, only to be ignored again by Ganthet.

“The valiant masked crusader of the skies, flying ace extraordinaire, the shining light that will lead us to victory!” Ganthet exclaims excitedly. “Just think, our next big hit-- Sinestro and Jordan, in _The Crimson Cavalier and the Green Lantern._ Guaranteed Success!”

“Just-- just like that?” Hal says cautiously. It couldn’t be _that_ easy.

“Just like that!” Ganthet affirms, then falls back in his chair and begins furiously shuffling through the papers scattered about his desk. “You’re officially promoted, kid. Come back tomorrow and I’ll have that contract drawn up for you.”

“The Cavalier is a _solo_ film series,” Sinestro huffs, marching up to Ganthet’s desk. “He’s not getting second billing on _my_ film.”

“Correction: it _was_ a solo film,” says Ganthet, smirking as he points a pen at Sinestro, who recoils with a frown. “He’s going in the next film, Sinestro. Whether you like it or not. Provided _that_ does well, then he gets his _own_ film series. Then you’re _both_ stars. How’s that for fair?”

Sinestro glances down at the still-seated Hal, scowling. Hal can’t help it: he echoes Ganthet’s smirk right back at him, his own brand of smug. Sinestro scoffs irritably and storms out.

“He’ll get over it,” Ganthet assures absently, waving him off. “Now, kid, about your prospective contract…”

\---

The Crimson Cavalier isn’t _supposed_ to have a partner, a fact that Sinestro isn’t at _all_ shy at letting everyone know.

Well, he does now, and it’s the _Green Lantern_.

It’s not _too_ big of a change for Hal, loathe as he is to actually make that step. He’d been perfectly-- well, not _happy_ , but surely perfectly _content_ with his previous occupation of stunt work and the steady, if somewhat meager, paycheck it provided. So long as he had enough money for rent and food, with whatever was left over summerily and quickly spent in the nearest speakeasy, Hal was _fine_.

But-- Ganthet’s offering on-site storage for the plane, for _free_ , and a decent cut of film profits. It’s hard for Hal to say no.

The Jenny gets painted a vibrant emerald green, with a stylized railroad lantern adorning her sides as the Green Lantern’s namesake squadron insignia. Hal goes through an additional mini makeover of his own-- the brown leather jacket now a dark forest, the scarf stamped with a simplified version of the Lantern’s insignia, his helmet and goggles made sleeker for the sake of appealing to the mystery of his true identity.

Hal feels like one of those adventurers in the dime novels he picks up sometimes, somewhere between _Jimmie Dale_ and _John Carter_. The newness of it all is as alluring as it is intimidating.

Sinestro isn’t any less steamed about it, of course, glaring at Hal every chance he gets.

Or, at least, Hal’s _pretty sure_ that’s what it is. He’s quick to scowl and turn away whenever Hal catches him staring. Well, _whatever_. If Sinestro thought he was just some dumb, hotshot fly boy, then so be it. He may not have wanted to be an actor, but he sure as _hell_ wasn’t going to give up now just because Sinestro was feeling a little _prissy_.

\---

Things change as they begin filming together in earnest, though Hal isn’t sure whether it’s for better or for worse.

“Don’t look at the camera,” Sinestro says sharply on their first day of shooting, snapping his fingers in Hal’s face for an added annoying effect. Hal flinches and scowls back.

“I _wasn’t_ ,” Hal defends brusquely, huffing, but it does little to help. Sinestro is quick to needle and correct him at every opportunity. If this even _is_ his idea of helping, he sure has an odd way of showing it.

It’s downright _infuriating_ , sometimes, to the point where Hal almost considers giving up-- but that would mean proving Sinestro _right_ that he wasn’t, in fact, cut out for this, so he barrels forward on sheer spite alone.

Or, at least, he’s _pretty_ sure it’s spite. There’s that nagging need for approval in the back of his mind, one that he can’t quite explain. Sinestro is rude and obnoxious and full of himself, but-- there’s _something_ in him that Hal’s drawn to. The sharpness of his features, the glint in his eyes. Whatever it is, it’s enough to keep Hal motivated, willing to brush it all off as nothing more than the need to prove himself worthy of the respect Sinestro evidently thinks he doesn’t deserve.

Subsequently, they butt heads. A _lot_.

Sinestro criticizes his ability to properly exaggerate his expression and body language, and Hal blows him off with witty retorts and breezy jokes. Sinestro is strict on following the order of the script and director, and Hal-- well, _isn’t_.

Ganthet likes his improv; apparently considers it a much-needed fresh, new take. Sinestro, obviously, _doesn’t_.

“For supposedly being _military_ , you’re sure terrible at following _directions_ ,” Sinestro says derisively to him at one point, in between takes.

Hal just grins back, knowing it’ll get a rise out of him. “No one ever said I was good at _that_ , you know.”

Sinestro, for once, doesn’t rise to the bait. His eyes narrow critically, something unreadable glinting within, and he-- _smirks_. It catches Hal off-guard enough that he has no real rebuttal to Sinestro’s parting shot of, “I pray you’re at least marginally better at _acting_.”

\---

One week rolls into another, and another-- and, soon enough, things get _slightly_ friendly between them. With a projected three to four months worth or so of time needed to film, there was so long even _they_ could snipe at each other.

It doesn’t stop Hal from stealing the show any chance he gets, whether intentionally or unintentionally. The film crew is tight-knit, not unlike the camaraderie Hal remembers in the Air Service-- minus the constant cloud of death hanging overhead, of course. It’s easy to roll with the jokes, to laugh, to _belong,_ superficially at least. Actually _making_ friends is something else entirely, but for now it feels nice to at least be liked. Sinestro, of course, is always standing by, ever-vigilant, always with that almost-perpetual sucked-lemon look whenever Hal steals the attention, but it’s-- not _terrible_ to have him around, really.

Sinestro might smirk, or even _smile_ , and maybe doesn’t snap quite so fiercely when Hal fumbles a stage direction or ruins a take, and Hal starts to maybe not dread having to work alongside him quite so much anymore.

They still don’t-- hang out, or anything, and they’re certainly not _friends_. At the end of the day Sinestro gets in his ridiculously fancy car and drives to his ridiculously fancy house and throws what Hal can only imagine to be equally ridiculously fancy parties.

So, _so_ many parties.

He hears about them in passing with increasing frequency once production really gets going, grand extravagant get-togethers that nearly everyone has gotten the privilege of attending at least once, whether they were even part of the film crew or not.

Except Hal.

No one ever makes any mention of a formal invitation, but-- Hal’s reluctant to even attempt, anyways. As marginally as Sinestro had seemed to warm up to him over the course of their partnership, he didn’t want to risk resetting the whole relationship back to icy just by crashing one of his house parties.

In any case, parties weren’t his thing. Too much noise, too many people, never enough alcohol. Sinestro could be free to flaunt his wealth and fame, and Hal would be content with the quiet privacy of whatever bar had escaped a raiding that week.

Or, at least, that’s what he keeps telling himself.

\---

There’s a knock at his apartment door-- which is _odd_ , considering Hal tends to get very little in the way of visitors. Even odder, _Sinestro_ is the one standing there in the doorway when Hal finally deigns to answer, cutting a sharp figure in his tightly-fitted suit. It’s nothing short of startling, and the abruptness of it all has him weirdly feeling put on the spot. He feels his face heating despite himself.

“Uh. Hi?” Does he invite him in? _Should_ he invite him in? The absurd desire to _impress_ Sinestro rears its ugly head even as he has no means to actually do so. “Can I help you?”

“As much as I am loath to do this,” Sinestro begins dryly, stiff and clearly reluctant. “For your part in the film, it behooves me to present you with this invitation, as per… _Ganthet’s_ insistence.”

He hands forward a crisp, small envelope, eggshell-colored and inlaid with gold accents. Hal’s hesitant to accept, suspicions abound, but takes it nonetheless.

“ _Hot dog_ ,” Hal says with a low whistle of surprise, opening the envelope and reading the card inside. “No kiddin’. A party?”

“A wrap party,” Sinestro continues, matter-of-fact. He smiles disarmingly. “I like to celebrate when I finish a film. The whole crew is invited to partake.”

“Wow. So, what, you just hand these out personally for _all_ your parties?”

Sinestro’s smile grows somewhat pained, then. “Well, _no_ , but you’ve yet to show up to any of the others. A more direct approach felt necessary.”

Hal’s brows drew together dubiously. “Didn’t you say Ganthet--”

“Will you come or not?” Sinestro interrupts with maybe slightly more sharpness than strictly necessary, a sudden intensity to his gaze that strikes Hal aback.

Well, he couldn’t see why not.

“Sure,” Hal says slowly, sticking the invitation into his pocket. Sinestro’s attitude practically reverses in an instant, smiling pleasantly. It’d be unnerving if Hal hadn’t found it such an unexpectedly appealing look on him. He finds himself smiling tentatively in return.

“Excellent! You shall not be disappointed. And, at the end of the night, I shall be holding a _séance_ ,” Sinestro adds with a little gleeful bounce and a self-assured smirk, like it’s something meant to be tantalizing or exciting.

“A what?”

Sinestro’s smile immediately falls. “A… séance?” He repeats. When all it earns is another blank look, he sighs exasperatedly. “Communicating with spirits of the _dead_ , Jordan. _Obviously_.”

“ _Ghosts_?” Hal says, narrowing his eyes critically.

“I happen to have a _very_ reputable psychic, you know,” Sinestro huffs indignantly. “ _Lyssa Drak_ is _the_ most esteemed medium of her caliber--”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Hal says, putting his hands up to stop him, fighting a chuckle. “Okay, sure, I’ll come, whatever. You’ll have booze, right?”

That seems to throw Sinestro off marginally, apparently still banking on the whole _talking-to-ghosts_ thing being the event to draw Hal in. He blinks, then grins. “Well, of course. It’s a _party_ , isn’t it?”

\---

The thing is-- Hal tries, he _really_ tries. He goes to the party, primarily goaded on by the promise of free alcohol and _lots_ of it. He _wants_ to go, he wants to see _Sinestro_ , oddly enough, curiosity piqued by that unusual show of friendliness off the set. Why was Sinestro so _intent_ on getting him to the party, why was he apparently so frustrated that Hal hadn’t attended any of his _other_ parties?

Moreover, why did Hal’s heart feel like it did a little somersault every time he thought about that absurd little smile of his?

 _Nerves_ , that’s all it was. It didn’t make sense otherwise. Seemingly proved when Hal arrives and the lights and the people and the _noise_ are immediately suffocating.

He doesn’t stick around for long. Surely, Sinestro would understand.

Swell party, otherwise.

\---

Sinestro, evidently, _doesn’t_ understand.

Hal attempts to apologize, to offer _some_ excuse so it didn’t look like he’d _completely_ rebuffed Sinestro’s invitation, and it… doesn’t go well, to say the last.

He gets the cold shoulder in response, a cool indifference that cuts deeper than Hal expects.

Well, fine. If he wants to be that way, Hal will let him.

\---

It’s about a month later when things finally come to a head in Sinestro’s dressing room. _The Crimson Cavalier and Green Lantern_ had officially finished production.

“You are _not_ going to the premiere, Jordan.”

“Bull!” Hal snaps, jabbing a finger. “ _I’m_ in the film, _I_ deserve to go as much as _you_ do!”

Sinestro rolls his eyes at him, distinctly unimpressed as he continues preening in the mirror of his vanity, adjusting his bowtie and affixing his cufflinks. “Please. You aren’t even _dressed_. They aren’t going to just let any _vagabond_ walk the red carpet. It’s not as though anyone will even know who you are, anyways. This is still _my_ movie.”

Hal fumes, because-- Jesus, he can’t even say Sinestro is _wrong_. Sinestro is dressed to the nines, and Hal very much _isn’t_. The nicest things he owns are on lease from the studio, and he wasn’t about to wear his old _army_ uniform out in public. His leather jacket was hardly anywhere close to _fancy_ and he doubted Sinestro would accept it, regardless.

“Look, if this is all because I didn’t go to your stupid party--”

“Don’t think me so _petty_ ,” Sinestro says abruptly, standing to face Hal, eyes narrowed and scowling. “I’ve _tolerated_ you, and my obligation to do so has run out with the conclusion of this film. After this, I return to my _A-list_ status and you are redelegated to seldom-heard _side-characters_. Now, unless you can manifest something _decent_ to wear where I wouldn’t be _embarrassed_ to be seen with you, kindly _leave_. I’m due for my makeup.”

Hal storms out without having to be told twice.

Jesus, well, _fine_. If Sinestro wants him to get dressed, he’ll get _dressed_. He wasn’t going to get rid of that easily. He was going to show Sinestro he was _better_ than some down-and-out stunt pilot.

\---

The tux is very much a last minute acquisition, but Hal manages to find a decently-fitted one by sheer luck. The bowtie is slightly constricting, and Hal has to fight to keep from constantly readjusting it, but it doesn’t look _too_ bad, altogether. He goes to seek Sinestro out to prove he _does_ , in fact, deserve to go to the film premiere, rapping harshly as his dressing room door until he answers.

“Well?” Hal challenges with more than a little annoyance. “I went out and got the stupid monkey suit, like you asked. Now are you gonna stop being such a wet blanket and let me roll with you or do I have to go and grovel for a ride from Ganthet?”

Sinestro, for his part, stands there utterly startled, eyes wide and jaw threatening to drop before he just as quickly reigns himself in and clears his throat.

“ _Well_ ,” Sinestro echoes tightly, readjusting his own bowtie to hide his fluster. “No one can say I’m not a man of my word. That is…” His eyes flick up and down in an obvious once-over, a touch of color rising to his cheeks. “... _Acceptable_ dress. Fine.”

Hal can’t help but smirk, only to find Sinestro suddenly reaching out to snatch at his collar and drag him inside.

“But you clearly don’t know a _thing_ about _styling_ , Jordan. Did you even _brush_ your hair? Not to mention, being under all those flashing cameras _will_ make every single skin imperfection _glaringly_ obvious, the least you could do is allow a _little_ foundation…”

\---

The glitter of flashbulbs is obvious the instant the car turns onto the street, a low murmur of excitement already drifting their way from the crowds amassed outside the theater. Hal peers through the tinted windows of the Cadillac and tugs nervously at the bowtie around his neck, a sense of unease already settling in the pit of his stomach.

“This is for us?”

“This is for _me_ ,” Sinestro corrects, without even bothering to look up from where he was touching up his mustache in a pocket mirror. Hal frowns crossly at him and sags back into his seat, unease growing. He swallows it back the best he’s able and shoves his hands in his pockets; he wasn’t about to give Sinestro the satisfaction of sitting this out.

“Still. Awful lot of people.”

“Well, I’m _me_ ,” Sinestro says primly, snapping the mirror shut with a sharp _click_ and slipping it in the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket. He looks disdainfully over at Hal, as though disappointed. “And, well. You’re _you_. I’m the film star here, remember?”

“Yeah, and _I’m_ in the film, _too_ ,” Hal points out none too gently, crossing his arms now; part in irritation, part to quell that sinking feeling within him. So much for Sinestro’s apparent split-second of kindness earlier. “You’re not the only film star here, anymore.”

Sinestro only sighs, rolling his eyes. “That’s being generous, at _best_. You should have listened to me when I told you not to come, Jordan. You may be an actual _actor_ , now, but you’re hardly a _star_. Trust me when I say you’re just not Hollywood material.”

“Says you,” Hal mutters churlishly, making a face at Sinestro when he looks away. _Hollywood material_ , he says. What a load of horsefeathers. Shows what Sinestro knows. As far as Hal was concerned, he _was_. He’d made it in the movie, hadn’t he? He was the _Green Lantern_ , now, second only to Sinestro’s Crimson Cavalier. He’d _made it_.

Hadn’t he?

The glittering lights draw closer as the car pulls up to the theater. The crowd’s murmuring grows even louder, muffled as it is by the barrier of the Cadillac doors. Hal begins to think maybe this isn’t so bad, after all.

The car stops, and the driver opens the door for them to step out, and a wave of noise and light rushes in to fill the cabin before Hal has the chance to _think_.

He stumbles out of the car dazedly, trailing after Sinestro, who is immediately all smiles and waves, preening under the limelight like he belonged there. It’s a moment before Hal realizes people are yelling for _him_ , too, high-pitched peals of women’s screams and men’s frantic shouts for his attention, surrounding him on all sides. For a second, Hal could easily imagine how _easy_ it would be to get drunk off the sensation of it all.

Then, the cameras start flashing.

Hal follows slowly behind Sinestro, stiffly waving and smiling awkwardly back at every shouted instance of his name. He struggles to blink the stars from his eyes, camera flashbulbs going off all around him, spotlights waving across the sky above him, and all the while the pit in his stomach deepens into a cavernous abyss.

Nausea roils in his gut, and Hal flinches bodily away from a particularly close flash, near blinded, frantically blinking to clear his vision. If he can just-- make it inside, it’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. If he can just--

“Now isn’t the time for stage fright, _Jordan_.”

Sinestro is muttering into his ear through tightly clenched teeth, terse from being said through the facade of a smile. It’s then he’s realizing he’s been standing there long enough for Sinestro to notice and fall back. “Get a move on. Just smile and wave, and get inside before you embarrass us _both_.”

He tries. He smiles, shaky and stiff, at the crowd. A fresh wave of flashing lights follows, and Hal blinks, and for a moment doesn’t see crowds of adoring fans, anymore-- just hears the screaming and feels the heat and he can’t _breathe_. He’s not at a movie premiere anymore but _there_ , where the bright bursts of light mean certain death and the screaming certain proof of it, where the growl of an approaching car becomes that of a _plane_ , instead--

Hal’s rooted to the spot. He can’t _move_ , not through the barrage of the flashing and the _screaming_. The air feels thick, too hot from the jostling of bodies all around them.

“Jordan, let’s _go--_ ” Sinestro orders impatiently, his voice sounding far away, grabbing a hold of Hal’s elbow and pulling.

He can’t breathe, he’s gonna be _sick--_

Hal tears away from Sinestro’s grip and escapes from the cacophony of the crowds and flashes and _noise_. He runs until the roar of the premiere is swallowed by the dull droning of the city and throws up behind a dumpster in a back alley.

So much for Hollywood material.

\---

No one comes after him, and Hal isn’t quite sure whether to consider it a blessing or a curse. He has half a mind to take his plane and make a run for it, his picture career well and truly done for, he’s _sure_ of it. He wasn’t _that_ famous yet, it wouldn’t take too much trouble to become just another nobody barnstorming stunt-flyer, giving people joyrides for a couple of dollars at a time. He just-- he _knows_ he messed up, just like Sinestro _said_ he would. Proved him right and embarrassed them both.

It’s another day or so before Hal deigns to step back on set, shoulders hunched and eyes furtive, unwilling to engage and subsequently have to _explain_ himself. Provided he even still _had_ a job, he was perfectly content to eat crow and go back to being just another nameless stunt actor. If not, well-- he could always just take his plane and go. Sinestro had obviously proved he wasn’t ready for this.

“ _Jordan_!”

And, speak of the devil.

Hal shoves his hands deeper in his jacket pockets and walks a little quicker, not in the mood to have his failures rubbed in his face. Sinestro doesn’t take the hint, his frustrated little huff audible from a distance as he picks up the pace and catches up with ease.

“Jordan,” Sinestro says tersely, halting him with a hand to his shoulder; Hal considers forcefully shrugging him off and changing course for his plane after all, but stops despite himself. “The other night--”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Hal says quickly, scowling and finally pulling away from Sinestro’s touch. There’s a flicker of disappointment in Sinestro’s eyes and Hal tries not to read too much into it. “Whatever you’ve got to say, I don’t want to hear it. You were right. _Happy_?”

Sinestro huffs but doesn’t let off, only mirrors Hal’s scowl and plants himself in his way. “I only wanted to know what _happened_ , Jordan. You can’t just _leave_ a premiere like that!”

“Nothing that concerns you, first off.” Hal sidesteps around Sinestro and walks determinedly towards Ganthet’s office, now intending on tendering his resignation, effective immediately--

“You’re _sick_ , aren’t you?”

That finally halts Hal in his place. He looks over his shoulder, slowly, over at Sinestro. Sinestro’s eyes are narrowed critically, as though examining him, though the rest of his expression is kept carefully neutral.

“I’ve heard about the way some soldiers would return from the Great War,” Sinestro continues, still so deceptively innocuous. “They would come back… _different_. Ill. It happened to you, too, didn’t it?”

Hal can feel his hackles wanting to rise out of sheer habit, defensive and abruptly uncomfortable with the sensation of being called out despite the lack of pity or accusation in Sinestro’s tone; he’s subsequently left unsure of how to respond, or what it’s even supposed to _mean_ in the first place.

“Yeah,” Hal eventually answers, careful and drawn out. Cautious. “Probably. What’s it to you?”

If Hal didn’t know any better, Sinestro almost made it sound as though he were _concerned_. There’s a flicker of _something_ in Sinestro’s expression then, before it’s covered up by his usual veneer of haughty indifference. Sinestro sighs and whatever it was is gone as he rolls his eyes.

“Try and get better, don’t you?” he says lightly, stiff and clumsily wished despite how well-meaning he must intend it. “The film-- the film _we_ made --ended up having the best opening night of this studio’s history. You’re still certainly no _Rin Tin Tin_ , Jordan, but... I’d hate to lose out on that just because of nerves. I’ll see you at the next casting call.”

Sinestro turns and leaves before Hal can get another word out, leaving him standing there gaping slightly still wondering what the _hell_ just happened. Most times, when people were unlucky enough to witness his fits firsthand, they expected him to _get over it_. If Carol’s patience had been thin enough with him already, her having to deal with the consequences of his shell shock on top of everything else certainly contributed to being the last straw.

Of course, Sinestro barely sounded any different from the rest of them as it was. And yet…

It must mean he… _cared_ , right? In spite of everything. Cared enough to make sure Hal stuck around, even if it did seem primarily motivated by the minor boost in fame afforded by their team-up.

Sinestro _cared_. That odd flutter in his chest returned, settling deep and refusing to leave.

Hal releases a breath he hadn’t realized was holding. He looks back towards the direction of Ganthet’s office, and suddenly staying doesn’t seem like such a bad idea anymore.

\---

Thankfully, there’s little in the way of consequences as a result of his stunt at the film premiere. Ganthet is merely ecstatic that his film venture had proved wildly successful, and immediately proposes a _Green Lantern_ solo series, the adventures of a noble Allied ace pilot protecting the skies against the savage Hun advances.

(Hal casts a careful side-eye towards Sinestro towards during that particular meeting, who remains unperturbed, his face a blank mask. If he’s bothered at all, he doesn’t show it).

Now an _official_ film star, Sinestro starts being... _marginally_ more friendly towards him. That talk they had managed to reverse whatever bad attitude he had going on and they start acting like _actual_ co-stars. Sinestro also seems-- _considerate_ , even, when the noise on set gets too loud or the lights too bright, he stands himself squarely in between Hal and whatever stimulus that’s making his nerves act up and just _talks_. Or, _complains_ , rather. Whether it’s about the catering, the stage direction, or even just the _weather_ , it’s usually ludacris enough to serve as a sufficient distraction and snap Hal out of it.

It’s a lot kinder than Hal would have ever given him credit for. It’s nice.

Sinestro looks out for him. _Helps_ him, even. No longer as sour or prickly as he once was.

They still don’t do much in the way of actually hanging out off set, but on set they’re as close to as _friends_ as Hal ever suspects they’ll get, between his own lingering reluctance leftover from the War and Sinestro’s otherwise aloof manner of carrying himself.

And yet, a part of Hal is left wanting _more_ , for once.

Hal hears rumors, now and then, of Sinestro being-- _bohemian_ , for lack of a better term. He knows enough about that word to know its implications, to know it wasn’t _just_ because of his extravagant lifestyle and somewhat dandy manner of dress.

It doesn’t lessen his opinion of Sinestro any, in fact--

Well. Hal considers that now-persistent flutter in his chest whenever they’re together and wonders.

Being a fighter pilot luckily spared him the worst of the horrors of the trenches, packed in like sardines in the filth and mud, but he was not without that unique camaraderie between soldiers. It never did any well to get too attached, not when your life was measured in a matter of days or weeks, and so Hal never did, yet--

It didn’t stop him from looking. From _wanting_ , yet deliberately holding back to save himself the pain when that plane didn’t make it back.

He supposes he always knew this about himself, buried deep as it was. He wasn’t-- _like that_ , surely, a _fairy_ or what have you, because as disastrous as his relationship with Carol ended up being, it was still _real_. Whatever the case, he _liked_ Sinestro more than he cared to admit.

If the rumors were true… then what?

Then-- maybe they could finally put an end to this frustrating, seemingly endless push and pull between them. Sinestro was handsome, and frustratingly entrancing even at the worst of times. Those pinstripe suits he so favored were expertly tailored, with an alluringly tiny waistline that Hal would find almost impossible to resist wrapping his hands around at the _best_ of times. Actually _acting_ on this attraction remained a nebulous concept at best, but-- Hal just needed to find out if Sinestro even felt the same way.

The question was _how_.

\---

“Another party invitation?”

Hal’s in a break between takes, taking care of some touch-ups on the Jenny, when Sinestro marches up and extends an arm, a small and simple envelope in his hand.

“Of sorts,” he answers, sly. “I’m hosting a sort of get-together for all the other actors of our caliber. Anyone who’s _anyone_ is going to be there. I’d appreciate it if you could come.”

Hal can’t help but goggle at that, though he’s yet to accept the invitation, eyeing it dubiously. “ _Our_ caliber?”

“Well, of course. You’re officially a star now, aren’t you?"

It feels like an odd turnabout, for all the fight Sinestro had put up previously against admitting exactly that, but Hal’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth just yet. And, if it provides the opportunity he’s been looking for to finally get Sinestro alone, figure out the reason behind Sinestro’s odd sometimes wildly varying behavior towards him, then…

Hal takes the invite, smiling. “I’ll come.” Then, adds somewhat teasingly sheepish, “I promise I’ll actually show up this time.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Sinestro enthuses, echoing Hal’s smile. “The promise of alcohol still stands, if it helps any. And… it shouldn’t be as _raucous_ this time around. More tolerable for you, in that case, I presume?”

Hal’s slightly taken aback by the notion of Sinestro actually making considerations for him, _again_. It had to mean _something_. Sinestro smiles expectantly at him.

“Yeah, um,” Hal coughs, awkward, feeling the beginnings of a blush start to rise in his cheeks. This was his out, he knew. Now he just needed to follow through. He smiles again, more earnest. “Thank you, actually. Should be, anyways. Do I need to dress up?”

“Only moderately,” Sinestro chuckles as he turns to leave. “Wear something nice, Jordan. You’re bound to be the _belle of the ball_ amongst our peers. You ought to want to leave them impressed.”

 _Wear something nice_. Hal looks down at the invitation, and feels anticipation begin to build inside him. _This was his chance_.

\---

 _Nice_ apparently entails digging out the tux from that disastrous premiere night. It’s the best he can do, regrettably, but for once Hal is intent on _genuinely_ earning Sinestro’s favor. He smoothes out the wrinkles the best he can, rubs off the worst of the lint, and actually manages to look half-decent by the time he needs to leave.

Hell, Hal even deigns to do his _hair_ , for once, styling and combing it back to something he hopes resembles somewhere in the neighborhood of _respectable_.

An awful lot of effort for someone only _rumored_ to have those inclinations, but the way Hal figured it, he only had one shot at it either way.

He finally takes a cab to Sinestro’s place when it's already well past dark. The party was well on its way when he arrives, muffled revelry seeping through the door and lights and shadows dancing through the windows.

Hal has half a thought that he should just-- _leave_ , cold feet striking suddenly and abruptly. He’s painfully aware he doesn’t belong in a scene like this, the fame and fortune and the _people_ , despite how much he’s been told his upcoming solo is already on the fast track to guaranteed success. He’s still not even sure he’s _dressed_ right, his knowledge of black-tie events beginning and ending at the movie premiere he very publicly abandoned.

But, he’s here. _Sinestro_ is here. Sinestro, who had made it a point to invite him despite Hal’s failure to even show up the last time. The least Hal could do was make a real attempt. He raps at the bronze knocker, and the urge to bolt flares up once more in the seconds between knocking and waiting for an answer. He really should go, he doesn’t belong--

The door opens, and it’s Sinestro standing there in the doorway, eyes lighting up at the sight of Hal.

“Jordan!” Sinestro greets warmly, and quickly ushers Hal inside. “So glad you could make it. Come, meet everyone--”

\---

Sinestro guides him with a hand to the small of his back, directing him through the throngs of people. It’s-- not at all what Hal had been expecting, the glitz and glamor making him feel _tremendously_ underdressed despite wearing a tux of his own, the women with their extravagant dresses and gowns, and the men with their glittering cufflinks and tie pins, coattails trailing behind them. There’s little in the way of recognizable faces, not that Hal _had_ expected to know anyone anyways, with maybe a scant handful being distantly remembered from movie posters seen in passing plastered onto billboards and buildings.

“Listen, Sin--” Hal tries to interject in between cursory introductions as Sinestro continues to lead him from group to group, cliques of actors whose fame he’d already personally decided he had no hope of achieving, singing praises all the while. If he could just get Sinestro _alone_ for just a second... “I was hoping, y’know, we could get a chance to talk about something tonight? In private--”

“Yes, yes,” Sinestro answers noncommittally, a smile plastered over his face in spite of the growing frown on Hal’s own. “Come! There’s others I’d still like you to meet!”

And so Hal allows himself to be reluctantly paraded around, shown off like some new shiny thing to be ooed and awed at, patiently waiting for a break in the march to secret Sinestro away off to the side and--

Okay, admittedly, Hal hadn’t _quite_ gotten much farther than that in terms of plans. Ever the pilot, still flying by the seat of his pants. All he knew was that he needed Sinestro _away_ from all this, in the hopes that whatever veneer of haughty arrogance he puts on in front of everyone else melts away when faced with _just_ Hal.

Glimpses Hal knows he’s seen before. He _knows_ Sinestro is capable of caring. It was just a matter of getting through the act.

It’s sort of nice, in an abstract sense. Sinestro clearly thought highly of _some_ part of him, even if a lot of this was evidently largely for the purpose of claiming partial responsibility for his sudden stardom. It had to mean something.

“Sinestro…” Hal tries again, after a dozen and a half introductions to others of varying fame and fortune. Many of whom _had_ genuinely been impressed by his flying skill and acting talent, with more than one expressing interest in his upcoming solo, but it all felt-- _fake_ , like he was still some nobody putting on a show. Sinestro did little to help, paying no mind when Hal began to clam up and let _him_ do all the talking. “This is nice and all, but if we could just…”

He’s brought up to a group of three men, all of whom dressed impeccably and giving off a subtle yet still distinct air of superiority that already rubs Hal the wrong way. Sinestro preens and smiles, continuing to ignore Hal’s protests all the while. “Gentlemen, this is the new _rising star_ I’d been telling you about.”

Hal smiles in an effort to seem marginally more presentable and extends a hand in tentative greeting. “Hey, Hal Jordan.”

There’s a pregnant pause in the air as they all just stare down at the proffered hand with detached amusement. Hal very tactfully retracts and holds both hands behind his back. Sinestro barrels on seemingly without notice.

“Jordan, these are some of the producers from the studio, high class actors in their own right-- Ted Knight, Wesley Dodds, and Charles McNider,” Sinestro explains excitedly. “Phenomenal on stage, even _more_ so on screen.”

Now with names to go with their faces, Hal has a slightly easier time recognizing a couple of them-- Dodds and McNider from some noir-type melodramas, Knight from a few wildly popular Shakespeares. All very successful, all very _rich_ , all already some degree of well-off before ever deciding to step into the limelight.

“Where did you begin, then, Jordan?” says Knight, with a tone that almost suggests he’s only asking out of indulgence to Hal. “Duke? Boston?”

Yeah, _definitely_ rubbing him the wrong way, now. He pulls a small frown in puzzlement. “Ah, nowhere, I guess? I was a barnstormer.” When all that earns him is a few blank looks, Hal tries again. “Y’know, stunt flying.”

Brows knit together, not quite disapproval but close to it, a consideration of facts and he blatantly looks Hal up and down as though surprised a simple barnstormer could achieve so much. “Fascinating, the types you find, Sinestro. An actor coming out of _stunt_ work.”

Hal bristles before he can help it, immediately on the defensive. “Now, _hey--_ ”

“Admirable, really,” Dodds cuts in, introspective. “Acting usually requires a certain precision and delicacy in execution, a _trained_ thespian, one that only springs from a _careful_ upbringing...”

“You saying I don’t belong here?” Hal snaps, only to be stayed by Sinestro’s hand to his shoulder.

“Of _course_ not,” Sinestro assuages, but it’s sickly-sweet and impartial, like his heart’s not really in it.

“Anybody doing stunt work can make it like I did!” Hal says, more incensed than he realizes. “I got my lucky break, what’s wrong with that happening to anybody else?”

“That’s _enough_ , Jordan,” Sinestro finally says tersely, gently nudging him back a step. Still all smiles, as fake and plastered-on as it remains now. The others watch him with dry amusement. “Lower your voice, please.”

“I’m not gonna let them _talk_ to me like that,” Hal shoots back through gritted teeth, low and under his breath, hoping that Sinestro would understand and at least _say_ something. He’s not so lucky.

“Jordan, _relax_ ,” is all he gets, easy and uncaring. “They don’t mean it, surely.”

Hal is fuming, but forces an equally plastered-on and fake smile of his own, thin and tight around the corners. Sinestro appears to pay it no mind, immediately turning back to the others brightly and offering a quick apology.

One last shot. Hal takes a steadying breath. “Sinestro, I wanted to talk--”

“ _Later_ ,” Sinestro says brusquely, waving a hand. “Why don’t you go mingle? This _is_ a party, after all. I’ll come find you later.”

It stings more than Hal would like to admit.

\---

Annoyance prods at him. He’d come all this way, at _Sinestro’s_ own invitation, fully intending to-- do _something_ ; figure out just how _bohemian_ Sinestro was, confess his maybe-feelings, see if they could actually _really_ get to know each other.

None of that seemed likely to happen, now. Sinestro blew him off, let the others none-so-subtly call him low-class to his _face_ and left him to brave the party alone.

The music is swanky, a jazz band somewhere nearby filling the air with swinging music. It’s not so loud as to cause a headache and not so crowded as to cause a fit. There’s illicit booze around every corner, pouring freely without a single care to prohibition. There’s an ache deep inside him that isn’t going away.

 _Later_ never comes. Hal does the only sensible thing left to him and gets _roaringly_ drunk.

\---

The rest of the night passes in a haze. The music and sights and sounds blur together, and Hal feels full of _determination_. It spurs him forward, pulling him towards a directive he cannot name. His vision swims. There’s someone he has to _find--_

There’s a sense of accomplishment, vaguely shameful, then nothing.

\---

When he wakes up later, it’s to an absolutely _pounding_ headache and the scowling double-image of Sinestro swimming above him, arms crossed. Hal squints against it and struggles to focus, his memories failing to come and leaving the last hours worryingly blank. He can gather he’s laying across a couch, one leg dangling off and trailing along the floor, and that _Sinestro_ was obviously extremely displeased with him.

Then again, Hal thinks somewhat disparagingly, when _wasn’t_ he?

Hal remembers the party with some difficulty, groaning with the effort as he reaches to scrub at his eyes-- _god_ this hangover was something else --but nothing else after what must have been his sixth or so drink, and even attempting any further than that only resulted in that ice pick being driven deeper into his skull. Whatever happened, Sinestro hadn’t liked it. Well, _good_. Hal was tired of trying to get on his good side.

“Morning, starshine,” Hal grits out as he sits up with some struggle. He grins despite the newfound roiling in his stomach, in that usual self-confident way of his. Whatever was up couldn’t be too terrible. “Some party. What’s eating you?”

“I think it’s time you left,” Sinestro says sharply, eyes narrowing.

“So much for hospitality, huh? And here I thought you finally liked me,” he retorts sardonically, halfhearted bitterness slipping in.

Something about that strikes a chord, apparently, going by the way Sinestro stiffens and sets his jaw, glancing away very briefly before settling his icy glare back on Hal. It’s then Hal’s smarmy, cocksure grin finally falls away. Unease crawls up his spine. “What? Did I do something?”

“It’s time you _left_ ,” Sinestro only repeats again angrily. Hal frowns, feeling unexpectedly spurned and suddenly very indignant as a result.

“Listen, pal,” Hal snaps back irritably, standing; whatever intimidation he could have hoped for is lost from the half-second of dizzied swaying once he reaches full height, but he barrels on anyway. “ _You’re_ the one who invited me. If it’s something I did, just _tell_ me. I’m sick of your high-hatted ass always deciding to just have _beef_ with me for no reason!”

“Your behavior last night was-- uncouth,” is what Sinestro finally grits out, still refusing to look at Hal directly all the while. “Embarrassing, to say the least. Unbefitting of the image I like to project. Consider yourself lucky I even allowed you to stay the night.”

The answer throws Hal, just slightly, his smart retort dying on his tongue. He gapes, just a bit, and finally settles for a scowl. “ _Uncouth_?”

His mind flashes back that disastrous excuse for a conversation the previous night, the last clear memory before the waters became muddied by everything thereafter. It was the only thing he could think of and with Sinestro refusing to elaborate further-- then, well, so be it. Drunken antics were always a possibility, sure, but if Sinestro was going to be an ass, then so could _Hal_.

“Thought you could pass me off as some rube, right?” Hal challenges coldly, stepping closer to Sinestro. “Parading me around, like I’d been your little pet project? Was that it?”

“Jordan…”

“I’d thought we were finally-- I don’t know, equals! Friendly! _Friends_! Something that meant when I’m getting insulted to my face, you’d maybe stick up for me for once! Forgive me for being _uncouth_ when us lowly _stunt flyers_ tend to prefer a more _personal_ way of solving our problems.”

Hal’s in Sinestro’s face, now, jabbing him in the chest with a pointed finger. Sinestro, for his part, has remained skillfully neutral throughout the whole tried, expression shuttered against the fury.

“To think I actually _liked_ you!” Hal finds himself spitting; _that_ finally gets Sinestro’s attention, a flash in his eyes that’s too quick to name. Hal _knows_ he’s overreacting, knows this response isn’t worth it, but he can’t _stop_ , months and months of feelings and frustration regurgitating all at once with no real sign of ending. It’s here he finally cracks, taking a heavy, shuddering breath and scrubbing a hand down his face. After a second, he takes a careful, measured step back, and smiles up at Sinestro plainly. “But, fine. I’ll leave. You asked nicely, after all.”

Hal turns without waiting for a reply, leaving Sinestro behind. He’s-- done trying, done making excuses, done with all the _effort_. Whatever reason Sinestro had for that constant game of push and pull between them wasn’t worth his time. Hal sees himself out, and doesn’t look back.

\---

The ache sticks around, despite Hal’s best efforts otherwise. It lingers and refuses to leave, and he feels like an _idiot_ for it. It’s like that night he came back to Carol after the war all over again-- the sudden realization that you don’t fit as well as you used to, the denial that you really could make it work again, and the resigning acceptance that you really _couldn’t_. That bone-deep hurt of _loss_ at the end of it all.

Hal feels even more like an idiot for making the comparison in the first place. He’d lost _nothing_ with Sinestro, because what had he even gained to begin with? And yet-- there, alone back in his apartment, uncomfortable tux shucked off and thrown haphazardly over a chair while he sits forlornly across a couch --Hal can’t help that uncomfortable sense of deja-vu. Replace the tux with an air service uniform, keep the hurt of rejection and the regrettable acknowledgement that you’d waited all this time for _nothing_.

Okay, so maybe he was a _little_ more into Sinestro than he originally thought. He was still-- _tired_. Tired of trying to work past whatever facade he was _sure_ was there.

Whatever the case, it was no use worrying over, now. Whatever hopes hadn’t been ruined by the party were taken care of by his little outburst right after.

Whatever he’d done-- and what a frustrating concept, still, that Sinestro wouldn’t even say! --Hal was through proving himself. He was going to earn himself a pretty little check from his next movie and pack up immediately after for clearer skies, taking his plane and just-- _going_.

Acting had been fun while it lasted, at least.

\---

Sinestro doesn’t show up on set the next day, or the day after that. Hal tells himself he doesn’t care, and pretends to be _better_ for it. More time to concentrate on the _Green Lantern_ without Sinestro constantly hanging in the sidelines, critiquing his methods and criticizing his work…

...Giving him pointers, lauding his ingenuity, teasing his slip-ups.

It’s only when Hal fumbles his blocking for the fifth time that day that he’s forced to acknowledge he’s maybe not dealing with this _quite_ as well as he’d thought.

“ _Cut_!” Ganthet’s megaphone-amplified voice forces Hal back into the present with a full-body flinch. When all he can offer is an apologetic glance, Ganthet sags in his high director’s chair and waves Hal off with a sigh. “Why don’t we break for the day? We’re ahead of schedule, anyways.”

The film crew scatters slowly, dispersing and diffusing out until it’s only Hal left on set. Ganthet parts with an apologetic look of his own, clearly sensing _something_ but retaining enough wherewithal to stay out of it.

Hal’s reluctant to take the break, as much needed as he’s sure it is. Too full of nervous energy, frustration that never quite fully burned off. It’s _not_ because of Sinestro, it’s just-- it’s been too long since he’s been able to _really_ fly, and Hal elects to solve that by taking advantage of his newly-acquired free time and heading directly for his Jenny’s hanger.

\---

As it turns out, it _does_ help. Enough, anyways.

It makes for a nice little impromptu aerial show. Hal spends the next hour or so making graceful loops and spins in the sky, occasionally playing at dive bombing at the handful of people that would stop and gawk below. It’s actually _fun_ , and that’s a rare enough thought on it’s own in these days since the war’s end, to the point that Hal’s still chuckling to himself when he brings the plane down to land later, for a split second feeling almost as good as the _first_ time he’d flown-- before the bombs and the guns and the gas.

It’s near perfect, save for the figure, tall and lean, waiting for him at the hanger door as he lands. Hal pays him no mind, concerning himself with the duties of cleaning and putting away the Jenny above all else.

(He has half a mind to _apologize_ , for some absurd reason, but then remembers the way Sinestro had called him an _embarrassment_ , and thinks better of it.)

Sinestro at least has the decency not to approach him directly, hanging back for a moment before cautiously making his way over. Save for his ascot, slightly askew, he’s as put together as ever-- hair slicked back, pinstripe suit, impeccably dressed. A far cry from Hal’s current-- _preferred_ appearance --windblown hair, a weathered leather jacket, cheeks reddened from windburn, still marked with the indents from his flight goggles and smudged from the grease from the plane. Hal plays for ignoring him as long as he can, busying himself with putting away equipment and carrying out post-flight checks.

The tension’s taught enough to cut with a knife. Sinestro’s the first to crack, breaking the silence with a sharp intake of breath.

“About the other day--”

“ _Ah_ ,” Hal interrupts harshly, putting up a hand. “We’re done with this, aren’t we?”

He’s not in the mood to deal with whatever Sinestro wants to bring up and even less inclined to entertain extending their argument further. He’d made it clear he was only ever interested in covering his own ass. Sinestro huffs, clearly annoyed, but tries again nonetheless.

“Jordan, about the other day-- I believe I misspoke.”

Hal has to laugh at that, and finally turns to face him, arms folded across his chest, deliberately closed off, eyebrow raised disbelievingly. “Did you, now? Because I thought you telling me to get the hell out was pretty clear.” Hal mockingly ponders for a moment, expression screwing up in pretend concentration. “What was it that you called me again? An embarrassment?”

Sinestro, for his merit, doesn’t rise to the bait; just sighs, stiff, and sets his jaw. If Hal didn’t know any better, he’d say Sinestro almost looked regretful. “Like I said, I misspoke. If you would allow me, I could explain.”

This ought to be interesting. Hal leans against his plane, arms crossed expectantly. “Alright then, Fritz. Explain.”

Sinestro recoils ever so slightly, blinking, but recovers easily enough. A low blow, Hal knows, and he hates that he’s sunk low enough for name-calling, but he’s clinging to that lingering frustration and anger with all he has and remains reluctant to let it go just yet.

“How much do you remember, about the party?” Sinestro asks. The non sequitur throws Hal off.

“Not much,” he answers truthfully, if somewhat wary. “Why?”

“You were inebriated,” Sinestro confirms, at which Hal rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, so I was more than a little corked. What about it?”

It doesn’t seem to comfort Sinestro any, who’s looking increasingly pained by the minute, and-- disappointed? _That_ catches Hal’s attention, brows furrowing together. “What? So it _was_ something I did?”

“In... a sense,” Sinestro says, frustratingly cryptic. He’s avoiding looking Hal in the eye again, distraught over _something_ yet still refusing to get to the point, adjusting and readjusting his ascot.

“So?” Hal snaps. “Spit it out.”

“Jordan, towards the end of the night, you-- sought me out,” Sinestro begins, uneasy, still fidgeting. “You were, as they say, _three sheets to the wind_. You were very incensed about-- something. Demanding. You pulled me aside, insisting on privacy. You were exceedingly upset but wouldn’t say _why--_ ”

“You _know_ why,” Hal accuses, losing patience. “Look, I don’t have time for this, either tell what I did that got your britches in a knot or--”

“Jordan, you _kissed_ me.”

 _Oh_.

Hal gapes, and with all the dignity he can muster does his best to pick his jaw up off the floor. He opens and closes his mouth a couple times but the words never come, a deep flush rising high to his cheeks. Finally, he settles on deflating, shoulders slumping before drawing in tight, defensive, fully prepared to close off. He-- _maybe_ remembers something about that night, now. That sense of determination that only liquid courage could cultivate, intent on getting his answer from Sinestro whether he was ready for it or not. He remembers finding him, pulling him into a deserted hallway, words slurring in his rush to make his intentions known and then-- a crash of lips, hands fisted in Sinestro’s lapels, heat rushing to his face. After that it’s well and truly a blur despite Hal’s best efforts. He remembers pulling back, or-- being _pushed_ back, he’s not so sure, and he can see Sinestro’s mouth moving but he can’t hear the words, he remembers the _shame_ , and the next thing he knows he’s waking up to Sinestro’s scowling visage.

Not a good sign, all things considered.

“Ah,” Hal says, inelegant. “Well.” There weren’t very many good outcomes from this, all of them hinging very narrowly on whether or not Hal’s _bohemian_ hypothesis still held any water. He turns back to the Jenny and sets about putting away his tools and equipment, overly casual to hide the nerves threatening to break through. “If you’re here to turn me in for being a pansy, don’t bother. I was gonna leave after the picture wrapped up, anyways. Maybe even sooner. You won’t have to worry about-- _that_ , from me, anymore.”

It apparently hadn’t been the reaction Sinestro was expecting. “What do you mean you’re _leaving_?” he exclaims, whatever original intention of his coming here forgotten in the face of Hal’s ultimatum.

That, in turn, hadn’t been the reaction Hal was expecting, but covers his surprise easily enough by slamming his toolbox shut with slightly more force than strictly necessary and whipping around with a thunderous scowl, jabbing a finger in Sinestro’s chest.

“It means the second I can, I’m skipping town. I should have left _ages_ ago! I meant to, you know, after that film premiere. I should have, it should have been obvious this isn’t for me, that I don’t belong here, but I didn’t, because--“ Hal cuts himself off abruptly, grimacing. He crosses his arms tightly across his chest, suddenly uncomfortable with his own truths. What use was it now, in any case.

“Well?” Sinestro presses, oddly impatient. “Why didn’t you?”

The direct tone throws Hal somewhat, but what did consequences matter at this point? He was already damned, wasn’t he?

“I thought you-- _cared_ ,” Hal admits, quiet. “Granted, not _much_ , considering how much of an asshole you still were, still _are_ , but enough to think you weren’t _all_ bad. You seemed to want me to stick around.”

Sinestro says nothing and continues to watch, silent and contemplative.

“And,” Hal continues, still subdued; if he was already baring his soul, he might as well be in for a penny. He could feel his face heating again in an equal mix of shame and embarrassment. “I dunno. I liked the look of you. I-- heard some rumors. Thought I might have had a shot at… something.”

There it was, all his cards on the table. Sinestro was still frustratingly silent, expression a careful mask.

“Rumors…?” is all he asks, arching an inquiring eyebrow slightly.

“That, um,” Hal coughs and clears his throat, u comfortable. “You’re, y’know, uh. _Bohemian_. For lack of a better term.”

He hates himself as soon as he says it. As if kissing Sinestro at the party hadn’t been bad enough, now he was more or less accusing him of _wanting_ it; perhaps it was good he was leaving after all.

“Well,” Sinestro says slowly, interrupting Hal’s self-loathing. “Not completely… _unfounded_ rumors.”

There’s a beat as Hal’s mind struggles to catch up with this new information. He blinks, startled, “I’m sorry, did you say-“

“The fact that I misspoke is an understatement, I realize. Suffice to say, I-- _panicked_ ,” Sinestro continues, stiff in that overly-casually way of his, fidgeting with his ascot again and not quite meeting Hal’s eye. “It’s a part of myself that I hold quite close, you see. The possibility of being caught made me more rash than I should have been. I--“ and now it’s Sinestro’s to flush in minor embarrassment, try as he might to retain his dignified appearance. “I Happen to find you very _keen_ , as well.”

Now Hal knows Sinestro must be taking him for a sap. “Coulda fooled me,” he says, somewhat sourly, bitter with himself for never seeing it and with Sinestro for apparently making it deliberately impossible to. Really, a part of him was downright giddy at the realization that Sinestro did like him back-- it was just all the wholly unnecessary heartbreak along the way that made Hal hesitate to accept it just yet.

“It wasn’t my intention,” Sinestro says, as gentle as he can manage, coming off as awkward in his attempt to be genuine, and takes a step closer; Hal remains unmoving, still trying to discern how he personally felt on the matter. “I’ve… suffered some great personal losses in my life, as a result of the Great War. I’m sure you understand. I let it color my actions. It just felt-- _unfair_. But then, well… let’s just say I was unfortunate enough to get to know you.”

That earns a snort of laughter out of Hal before he can help it, hiding a smile behind his fist. “You wouldn’t be the first to say that, actually.”

That makes Sinestro laugh, then, a quiet little chuckle that makes Hal feel all warm inside, melting away his resentments and embittered feelings.

“I should say, Jordan,” Sinestro says as he steps forward again, closer to Hal. “The reason I didn’t reciprocate- I couldn’t, not in good conscience. You could hardly stand as it was. Combined with everything else, and with how upset you were… I didn’t want to risk doing something we'd _both_ regret.”

“Fair enough,” Hal grants, shrugging. Sinestro was close enough now to smell his fancy European cologne, mingling with gas and grease of the plane still lingering in Hal’s clothes. “Say, though, that… I’m not upset, now. I’d even like to think I’m of reasonably sober mind. What’s your conscience say, then?”

Sinestro tilts his head, the ghost of a smirk pulling at his lips. “I… might be inclined.”

Time seems to slow for an instant, there in that dim, stuffy hanger. Slowly, carefull, Hal leans forward, chin tilted up slightly to meet Sinestro’s height, and kisses him.

A _real_ kiss, this time, one not muddled by the haze of alcohol or the red mist of anger. Sinestro’s lips are soft against his, and his mustache tickles slightly, but it’s good and real and Hal doesn’t want to let go.

They’re both comfortably flushed as they part, Hal’s hands hanging loosely onto Sinestro’s lapels, Sinestro’s resting gently at his hips.

“I hope it’s not too late to ask if that could persuade you to stay, Sinestro murmurs, somewhat sheepish.

Hal laughs, light and airy and full of boyish hope for maybe the first time since before the war.

“I don’t know,” he hums, leaning in again. “I might need a little more convincing.”


	2. Cover Art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very lovely cover art illustration provided by [ufonaut](https://ufonaut.tumblr.com/), to whom I owe the world for and still can't thank enough for being so endlessly patient with me.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m @slaapkat on tumblr!


End file.
